


Prove It

by Secretmonkey



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: Amy tries to prove something, F/F, Karma approves, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secretmonkey/pseuds/Secretmonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the 'prove it' scene from the new trailer.  Mostly an excuse for smut.  Reagan asks Amy to prove she's into her.  Amy obliges while Karma spies from outside the door.  Smuttiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prove It

_**Because someone asked. And my motivation to work on JFM or Bartender isn't exactly great (damn hiatus). Based on the new trailer and the 'prove it' scene. More than a little smutty.** _

You came back to fix it. You came back to help.

It was, after all, your fault.

Although you would protest that that's a little unfair. How were you supposed to know Reagan was outside the window? How were you supposed to know she'd hear you tell Amy that she had to be truthful about the Liam 'incident' and her'sexual hulk' confusion?

If this is anyone's fault, it's Amy's. She's the one who kept a secret

(again)

and she's the one who thought something everyone

(Amy. You. Lauren. Liam. Shane.)

all knew would never, ever, even accidentally

(and it was an accident)

come out.

Yeah. This is all Amy's fault. You've got nothing to feel bad about.

And maybe, when you actually believe that perfectly logical and surprisingly fair assessment of things, you'll stop feeling guilty. And the sight of Reagan's truck outside Amy's house, the realization that, since you hadn't passed her coming in as you were going out, she must have used the window and so she probably heard it all won't bother you even a little bit.

Yeah.

And someday, maybe, you and Shane will have a threeway with another guy and it won't be awkward or weird or fucking insane at all.

You'd give those both about an even shot at happening.

Fuck.

You don't mean to do these things. Really you don't. It's not like you wake up in the morning and think to yourself,  _Karma, what can you do to totally fuck up Amy's life today_?. And it isn't like it was in the beginning when maybe -  _maybe_  - you would have, sort of, just a little,  _liked_  hurting Reagan. It's not that way anymore. You're friends now, sort of, and you really don't want he to be hurt and you  _really_ don't want Amy to be hurt, but now it seems like one of those

(or both)

is inevitable. And, just like that night at Communal, you think you can help and this time, there's no Liam to try and stop you and - somehow - you doubt Amy's going to yell at you again and tell you she's got it all taken care of

(cause let's be real, if there's anything Amy  _doesn't_  have taken care of, not even remotely, it's this)

and so you have to try, you have to be the best friend you always claim to be, you have to help Amy make Reagan understand.

And if that fails?

Well, Amy's going to need comforting, right?

For once,you manage to exercise just a little common sense and you don't go storming back in, barging into Amy's room and proclaiming to Reagan that she just has to understand

(even if you're not entirely sure even  _Amy_ really understands her sexuality at this point)

because, you realize, there's a chance that Reagan didn't hear anything. Maybe she doesn't know, maybe she and Amy are in there just chatting about their weekend plans, or exchanging fashion tips or scrolling through Amy's Netflix queue.

"How could you not tell me you're into guys?"

OK. Not fashion tips.

"Because I'm not sure I am."

Oh, Amy. Honesty is not  _always_  the best policy.

You stand outside Amy's door, still cracked open slightly from when you left and you peer inside. There's no bloodshed yet and Amy doesn't seem to be crying, so that's something. She and Reagan are sitting on the edge of the bed, with Amy's back to the door so you can only see the older girl's face and Reagan looks somewhat less than convinced by Amy's words.

Not that you can blame her.

She stands, apparently giving in already, looking ready to bolt the same way she came in

(has she never heard of a door?)

but Amy grabs her wrist and pulls her back down to the bed and the fact that Reagan doesn't resist, doesn't put up anything close to a fight, gives you hope.

"I'm not sure," Amy says. "And I know I should have told you I wasn't sure. And I'm sorry I didn't, but you have to know, I am sure  _this_ ," she waves a hand between her and Reagan. "I'm sure of you. Of us."

Reagan doesn't move, which is good. She's not leaving. But even you can tell that not leaving and  _staying_  aren't exactly the same thing.

"I'm confused about a lot of things," Amy says

(and God, can she stop digging the hole deeper)

"But I'm sure of how I feel. I'm sure that.. " she reaches out and cups Reagan's cheek and realize where this is going and suddenly you feel  _way_  out of place, like you're totally intruding on something that should be just between the two of them

(because you are)

but you don't make a single move, don't step even an inch away from the door

(of course you don't)

and then you and Reagan hear it - for the first time - together.

"I love you," Amy says.

You and Reagan might be friends of a sort now but that doesn't make you anything close to an expert on her so you can't really read her face at all

(though, as someone who has heard those words from Amy, you've got a decent idea what Reagan's feeling)

(even if, supposedly, you and she don't feel the same way about Amy)

(supposedly)

but then there's that smirk that settles on her face for just a moment before she quickly goes blank, but her eyes are on fire and - again - you feel so fucking out of place because you may not be a Reagan expert, but you know  _that_  look.

"Prove it."

So, yeah, maybe it isn't 'I love you, too', but given what Reagan overheard and the confusion and fear that's probably still got churning in her gut, it's not that much of a shock that she might hold back a little. But those words are clear.

It's a challenge. Reagan's way of telling Amy that you know what? Actions speak a fuck load louder than words, especially when all the words have been doing lately is hiding some pretty hefty shit.

Prove it, Reagan says. It's a test, one Reagan is well within her rights to make Amy pass. Prove it, she says. Make me believe.

And maybe it's a test that will really take months - maybe years - for Amy to pass

(if she even can)

but there is something she can do right here, right now. She might not be able to convince Reagan but she can  _show_  her. She can give her a reason - or two or three - to stay, to give her a chance, to let her have those months and maybe years.

So Amy kisses her. Hard. She practically dives into the older girl's lap as their lips crash together and you know - you  _know_  - that you should look away. At the very least.

You should look away, turn away, walk away.

Fucking run.

And yet… you don't You  _can't_.

And yeah, you're not going to think about just why that is, just yet.

Instead, you're going to think about the way Amy's ass looks in those jeans, as she thrusts it up in the air as she presses Reagan back against the headboard.

And you're really not going to think about the little tremor of something

(not jealousy)

(definitely not)

that ripples through you at the sight of Reagan's hands coming to rest on that ass. Squeezing it, gripping it, pulling Amy even closer.

No, you're not thinking about  _that_. You're going to think about how different this is. That's going to be your excuse, your reason for not leaving because you're too stunned to move, too shocked by how different this is. How different  _she_  is.

You've seen them kiss before. Hell, anyone who spends more than five minutes with them sees that

(sometimes you wonder if Reagan's lips are like some sort of fucking sun with their own gravitational pull that just keeps dragging Amy's back in)

and sure, maybe seeing them kiss has always done a little something funny to you, made you feel some kinda way, but this… this isn't  _that_.

You've seen them kiss good-bye when Reagan's dropped Amy off at your house. Just a quick peck as Amy leans back in through the driver's side window of Reagan's truck.

You've seen them kiss hello the couple of times Reagan's spun at clubs you and Amy could get into. A little more than the little peck

(Amy likes to mark her territory and scare off the little DJ groupies)

(and yes, those are apparently really a thing)

but still, nothing you couldn't see on a dozen TV shows every week.

You've even seen Amy kiss Reagan when she doesn't think anyone's watching, when it wasn't a hello or a good-bye or for any reason at all other than she wanted to. A kiss on the cheek, or a little one on the top of Reagan's head while they're snuggled and watching a movie.

You've seen that. All of that.

And this? This is so not fucking that.

This is Amy planting herself on Reagan's lap. This is Amy sucking on Reagan's bottom lip, tugging on it while her hands slide up Reagan's sides, under her shirt. This is Amy leaning back for a moment before moving back in and - quite fucking clearly running her tongue along Reagan's lips, waiting for her girlfriend to part them and let her in, but then, instead, she pulls back, the movement causing her hips to grind down against the older girl

(and the growl that comes out of Reagan might be the sexiest thing you've ever fucking heard and you're not even going to try and deny it)

and then Reagan's moving, chasing Amy, capturing her lips with her own, teeth grazing and their tongues are sliding against each other

(and fuck, when did Amy's house get so hot?)

as Amy swivels her hips in a way you didn't even know she could move, but you find yourself moving in time with her, your own hips swaying in the hall and really, you have no idea if this is proving anything to Reagan, but but if you ever had any doubts about whether Amy loved her or not

(and be honest, you did)

those doubts just evaporated. Because maybe you were too blind or oblivious

(or  _chose_  to be)

to see that Amy was in love with you. But you  _know_  Amy

(or you thought you did)

and no way, no how, no fucking chance Amy does this -  _any_  of this - unless she's so far gone in love she can't see straight.

(No pun intended.)

Because this Amy? The one that's slowly

(so fucking slowly)

kissing her way down Reagan's neck? Her lips and her tongue and - if Reagan's short labored gasps and shuddering moans are any indication - teeth deliberately and painstakingly kissing and tasting and marking every bit of Reagan's exposed skin.

This Amy?

She's different.

She's more than different. This isn't a little tweak in the personality, this isn't a small shift in character. This is a fucking sea change, this is a girl -  _woman_  - you had no idea even fucking existed

(and if you were honest with yourself, this is a woman you're fucking glad as hell wasn't the one who confessed her love to you because you have no idea if you'd have been able to say no)

and you keep telling yourself that  _this_  is why you're staying, why you're standing in the Raudenfeld-Cooper hallway, your hips grinding against the air and your breath short.

Because this Amy is different, this Amy is someone you don't know and you thought you knew every Amy, you thought you knew  _all_ of her.

(Except  _obviously_ , you know,  _that_  part because, well, you're not  _supposed_ to know that one)

(because you're just friends)

(because you love her)

(just not like that)

(because you're  _straight_ )

_So_  obviously straight. Because all the straight girls watch their sexually confused best friends fucking their incredibly hot lesbian girlfriends.

And yes, you know they aren't  _exactly_ fucking yet, but the 'yet' is the key word there. Because when Amy's hands push Reagan's top up, bunching it just beneath her breasts and then she slides down, blonde hair fanning out in every direction as she presses those lips against her girlfriend's abs

(and fuck, being a DJ must be a hell of a workout)

her tongue swirling around flicking in and out of Reagan's navel as the older girl's hands tangle in all that blonde, pressing Amy harder against her?

Yeah. They're gonna fuck.

And so you keep telling yourself that you can't look away because you love Amy - just not like that - and the thought that there would be even a little part of her that she doesn't share with you and that might belong to someone else

(and that fact that someone else might be Reagan, who you've really come to like but will always, at least a little, resent the fuck out of has  _nothing_  to do with it)

well, that hurts.

And everyone knows how well you deal with hurt.

About as well, as it would seem, as you deal with watching Amy let Reagan steer her, let the older girl guide her head down, past those perfect

(and glistening) (don't forget glistening)

(like you'll  _ever_  forget any of this)

abs, until Amy's even with the waistband of her jeans and then - oh, sweet Jesus - Amy looks back up at her.

"Prove it?"

Reagan nods and she hasn't even finished moving her head before Amy's popped the button on her jeans and slid the zipper down

(with her fucking teeth)

and hooked her fingers into Reagan's belt loops, using them to slowly work the jeans down, bit by fucking bit.

"You want me to prove it?" Amy asks as the jeans reach the bottom of Reagan's thighs and your view is good enough

(so fucking good)

that you can tell the burnette's not wearing underwear and you have to bite your lip not to moan.

Reagan nods again but Amy stops, the jeans still in her hands but not moving

(and why isn't she fucking moving?)

and she shakes her head.

"Say it," she says. "Tell me."

And fuck all you know you should go, you know you should take this break in the action to get the fuck out before you see something you can't unsee but you don't move even a little, other than your hand shaking on the doorknob.

(Shaking so much so that you have to pull it back - lest it shake the knob or accidentally push the door open or do something else that might alert them that you're here - because we can't have that)

(that would be embarrassing)

(that would be hard to explain)

(that would make them stop)

and you try, so very hard, to dismiss the way your heart is racing and the color you can feel flooding your cheeks

(ignoring any other possible floods)

and the way your thighs keep clenching together. And - most importantly - the tiny little chill

( _thrill_ )

that runs up your spine every time they do.

"Say it," Amy repeats.

"Prove it," Reagan stammers out and you thank God she managed to say it

(another few seconds and you might have said it for her)

but that's not enough for Amy.

"How?" she asks, shimmying Reagan's jeans down just another far too short inch. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how to prove it."

"Shrimps…"

It comes out like a warning, or at least that's what you think Reagan's going for, but all you hear is pleading.

Amy tugs the jeans down past Reagan's knees, dropping to her own at the end of the bed, running her hands up and down the inside of her girlfriend's legs

(and yours grow weak every time Amy's hands move up and you have to stifle a groan every time they come back down without…)

(without.. well… you  _know_ )

"Do you want me to touch you?" Amy asks.

(yes)

She runs her hand up along the inside of Reagan's thigh, slowly moving it across the older girl's body, fingers just barely brushing against her clit and Reagan's hips buck up off the bed, desperate for the contact to return.

Amy grins, clearly enjoying the chance to prove herself and you - somehow - manage to focus on her, your last desperate attempt to pretend this is something it isn't

(like you about to bring yourself off in the fucking hall)

by doing everything you can to keep it clinical, educational, all about learning more about this new side of the woman you thought you knew everything about. You try to focus on the way she does things

(things like reaching up and deftly popping the front clasp on Reagan's bra and then guiding Reagan's hands to her own breasts)

(things like urging Reagan to touch herself, saying 'I like to watch you play')

(and if you forget for just a moment that she's not talking to  _you_ and find yourself fondling your own breasts through your shirt?)

(you're forgiven)

and you focus on how those things she does fit - or don't - with the Amy you know.

For example

(and yes, you say ' _for example_ ' in your head because, let's face it, it sounds all teacher like and scientific and you don't think you've ever read a line that says 'for example' in any of the lesbian erotica you might -  _might_  - have perused online)

you never would have pictured Amy like this, as the aggressor. Sure, when it comes to you, Amy doesn't hold back

(at least you thought she didn't)

but with everyone else? Amy's shy, she's reserved, she keeps to herself

(mostly so she doesn't kill anyone she finds annoying)

(so, you know, ninety-five percent of the population)

and  _that_  girl is - in your mind - not the topping kind.

(And yes, you know what a 'top' is.)

(You looked it up.)

To be honest, if you'd ever imagined you and Amy together, like  _that_

(in a purely uncontrollable, you were asleep and cannot be held responsible for what your mind did kinda way)

(or, more recently, in a 'holy shit, that's  _hot_  and I can't help myself' kinda way)

well, you were  _always_  the top, the one steering the ship, leading the way. You were the one controlling Amy, doing to her  _exactly_ what she's doing to Reagan.

Teasing.

Playing.

Driving her fucking nuts.

And once you'd pushed her sufficiently far, once you'd worked her up to the point she couldn't even say her own name?

Then you'd make her cum.

Then there would be no more preamble, no more setting the stage, no more warming her up.

You'd drop to your knees behind her

( _always_  behind her)

and bury your tongue inside her, driving it in in one fell swoop. You'd never go slow, you'd never take your time.

You'd just fuck her.

In and out, swirling all around, hitting just the right spots, the flat palm of one hand going round and round on her clit, the other hand gripping her hips, pulling her back against you, slamming her back onto your tongue.

Until she screamed. Until she begged you to stop. Until her knees gave out and she collapsed onto the bed or the table or the park bench

(your subconscious liked to mix it up)

and then, once you'd given her all she could want, well then you weren't just top. You were teacher. You were the giver, not just of orgasms, but of knowledge.

(And yeah, that sounds  _that_  fucked up in your head too.)

But that's how you two work - you leading the charge and Amy falling in line.

So of course you would have to guide her. Show her.

For example

(how's that clinical distance working for you?)

showing her just how you like your nipples pinched. A quick, sudden motion, no lingering or rolling

(not like the way Reagan's got each of her perfectly hard little nubs trapped between her fingers, gently squeezing and turning and tugging while Amy asks, again, how she should prove it)

especially if she did it at just the right moment - always as she pumped two fingers into you

(like the three she's slowly filling Reagan with)

and with the perfect extra stimulation of a flick of her tongue across your clit.

A  _flick_. Not a lick. Not a suck.

Almost a slap. The flat of her tongue - always the flat - slapping against you over and over and over

(And you're starting to lose your clinical distance)

(that tends to happen when you undo your jeans and slide a hand between your legs)

and you can't see Amy's face anymore because Reagan's got her head in her hands again

(and when did that happen?)

guiding it between her legs and maybe you can't see what she's doing, but the 'fuuuuuuck' Reagan hisses out between clenched lips and the way her thighs squeeze tight around Amy's head gives you a pretty good idea what's going on.

And you can't help it, you can't control it

(and you're still awake)

and you don't even  _want_ to anymore so you lean back against the wall, your fingers slipping through your folds and you've never been this fucking wet

(sorry, Liam)

and you watch, even if all you can see is the back of Amy's head as she moves between Reagan's thighs and those perfect fucking abs flexing as Reagan's body arches and falls in time with Amy's tongue.

Your knees are barely holding and you sink lower on the wall, not noticing your foot bumping against the door.

You watch as Amy devours Reagan and you're not sure which of them moans louder

(or maybe it's you)

and your gaze drifts upwards, over Reagan's breasts, the ones she's mauling again with both hands, and you stare at her, watching the way her face contorts, almost as if she's in pain

(you wish Amy would fucking hurt  _you_  like that)

and at the exact moment your fingers find your clit and with one motion send you careening through the loudest, wettest, and most mind-blowing orgasm of your life, you find yourself staring into Reagan's eyes, as she stares back, even as her mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out and you're not sure if either of you is even breathing and then it all goes black.

When you come back to the land of the living, Amy is kneeling next to you. You're half in the hall, half in the room and 100% fucked.

You consider, for half a second, going with the traditional 'this isn't what it looks like'

(your knees are still shaking and your hand is still in your pants)

(there's no way this isn't  _exactly_  what it looks like.)

You wait for the anger, the yelling, the 'what the fuck, Karma?' that you know is coming.

But then Amy offers you her hand, helping you up and guiding you into the room, kicking the door shut behind you.

Reagan's still there, on the bed, looking about as spent as you feel. She'll be fine in a few, ready to return the favor and make Amy scream her fucking name

(that, you will find out, is Reagan's  _favorite)_

but, right now? She's only got the strength for simple. Straight-forward. No fucking around.

(that'll come soon)

"Join us?"

And you're pretty sure you're still passed out on the floor and not standing here next to your best friend

(who you now realize - and can  _admit_  - you do, in fact, love  _like that_ )

with your hand still in your pants

(you really should do something about that)

and her freshly fucked girlfriend asking you to join in.

Amy tugs on your arm, slowly pulling your hand free from between your legs, lacing your fingers

(yes,  _those_  fingers)

with hers.

"Join us?"  _she_ asks.

"I… I'm…." You don't know what to say, how to act, what to fucking do, so you fall back on old habits. "I'm  _straight_."

Reagan smirks and you're pretty sure Amy's biting back a laugh.

"Oh yeah?" Reagan says. "Prove it."

It's a challenge. Actions speak so much louder than words.

Amy leans in, bringing your joined hands up between you and places a series of gentle kisses all along your knuckles and you know she can fucking taste you. And you know you never stood a chance.

"Prove it," she whispers.

It's a test.

One you spend the rest of the night

(and the night after that and the night after that and on and on)

failing.

Spectacularly.


End file.
